


All My Worst Nights Are the Best Times

by poetsandzombies



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 05:36:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20559095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetsandzombies/pseuds/poetsandzombies
Summary: Post-Pennywise. A brief fix-it for It: Chapter 2.





	All My Worst Nights Are the Best Times

**Author's Note:**

> On Tumblr here: https://meetmebythekissingbridge.tumblr.com/post/187566524975/when-they-get-outfrom-the-harrowing-sewers-of

When they get out—from the harrowing sewers of their childhood, the crooked house, the front steps where it all began—it isn’t for a long time that the sunlight comes in and Mike can lean into Richie’s space and say “he’s hurt, but okay.” Richie doesn’t breathe until that moment.

They’re in the water now, washing the remnants of nightmares from their clothes and faces. Some of them steal this moment for themselves, turning away for privacy, while others tend to each other. Their panicked, ragged breaths calm and silence slips in, not looming, but resting—in sync with their heartbeats. 

Eddie turns to Richie at one point, wading toward him, low in the water. He reaches out with tentative fingers and pulls his glasses off. Richie stills as his fingertips brush the sides of his face, still shaken by the almost-losing-him. He watches Eddie drag the glasses beneath the water and wipe them on his t-shirt, the rattling in his bones simmering into something like amusement. 

“I can’t believe those were going to be my last words to you,” Eddie murmurs. He inspects Richie’s glasses one more time before putting them back on Richie’s face. His hands linger there. Richie grins. 

“Are you taking it back, Kaspbrak?” He asks. Eddie shrugs.

“No, I _definitely _fucked your mother,” he says, deadpan. Richie snorts. He considers dunking Eddie under the polluted waters, but remembers the wound in his chest and decides against it. 

“I want to show you something,” he says instead. “After.” 

After the hospital—after a doctor’s confirmation that Eddie was in the clear. It would mean Richie was ready. 

—

This town, now. It has all of the same quiet and none of the foreboding. But as Richie walks the road just outside the kissing bridge, shoulder to shoulder with Eddie, he remembers it for what it is. 

“Okay, if you don’t say something soon,” Eddie says next to him, and Richie can feel him getting worked up, “I’m going to start thinking it’s not o—”

“Almost there,” Richie interrupts, jogging to pick up the pace. “Here.”

All Richie can do is show his open wound—the wooden fence and the letters he’d carved out of it—to the person he’s the most scared to show, and the only one he can. Eddie bends over to get a better look; he traces the “R” with his index finger.

“I couldn’t say it back then,” Richie explains quietly. “I’m still finding the words. This town kept me paralyzed, Eddie.” 

“I saw these, once,” Eddie says, pulling away from the fence and facing Richie. “Bowers had… Bowers had cornered me here. I saw them with a knife to my throat.” 

Richie holds his breath, insides twisting. But Eddie takes a step toward him. 

“I wondered about them,” he says. Richie reaches out, daring, and rests a hand over Eddie’s t-shirt where he knows bandages lie beneath. Eddie inhales, wraps his fingers around the back of Richie’s neck, and pulls him in, kissing him. 

The danger is still there, but Richie isn’t scared of it. 


End file.
